


First Times

by faelan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drama, Fantasy, Hale family isn't cursed they're special, M/M, Magic, Nemeton, Romance, SPIRITUUALISTIC OVERTONES, Tree of Life, esoteric, mention of death in hale and stilinski's families, metaphysical, realistic fantasy in a way, tearjerker at times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-05-15 21:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19303873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faelan/pseuds/faelan
Summary: Stiles is nine when he sees the tree of life.Derek is nine when he learns he isn't exactly human.There is a first time for everything.





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles is nine when he sees the tree of life.

There is no snake though. No choices. No questions. No devil. No god. Just peace. Just timeles peace. Calm. Serene. And so green it felt like it was all within him from the get go. 

Stiles sees the tree of life. He is sure it is what it is.

That was and is the first time he is sure of anything in his life. In the tree, he believes. For the first time. Just believes. Nothing else. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just plain, old, belief. 

The rest of Stiles' life though becomes over time a puyyle. Disjointed. ,esses up. Without sense. And soon with the death of his mother, his other tree of life, he stops believing somewhenre along the way. 

Except for that one brief yet timeless time. His first. Maybe. Probably his last. Just that tree and Stiles, and nothing else existed. 

For a timeless moment within his heartbeat. Or from it? Who knows by now. It slips his memory in details, yet remains a complete puzzle which he doesn't need to solve or reshape. The only puzzle that made sense in a sensless world. 

Stiles is nine when he sees the tree of life. Timeless first and last because, Stiles ponders, maybe time is an illusion of an ill mind of human dis-eased heart which tries to make sense of infinity from which life sprung or crawled from. All of our roots, trunks, and branches. Seeking heaven without looking down from time to time. 

And so the fruits sometimes rot on our trees, and die. And nature doesn't seem to care or mind. But we let them rot, our own fruit, andyet they are reborn each time, a different time, same place in a different place. Over and over again. Infinite and serene. Life and death in an embrace. Maybe, Stiles wonders, maybe that's what life is. A moment entraped within our limited minds within the limitless heart of earth that holds down our roots. 

 

Derek is nine when he learns he isn't exactly human. The Moon speaks to him and he talks back. It's a thing he has. 

But he talks back without uttering a word from his mouth and the Moon hears him. And so his other mother, before the Moon-One, walks him to the woods, through the gloomy silent trees at night and the smell of freshly born grasss blades to the Nemeton.

'This is our tree of life, Derek' She says. 'We are bound by the oaths of our ancestors to guard Earth. Guardians, Derek. Not beasts.'

Derek nods, he is only nine, but even in his sleep-ladden steps, barefoot, and somewhat feverish, his heart tattoos the word Guardian in the web of life of the trees in the woods, in the branches of Nemeton, in the silence of his Voicless Mother in the night sky. Guardian. Fiorever,. Til the lasst breath. Alpha nad Omega. The begining as the end. 

That is the first time Derek felt different. And the difference didn't bother him. But it bothered others. Others who didn't deserve the title of Guardians.


	2. In the mind's eye

T“Tell me a story,” Stiles used to ask his mother.

“Ages and ages ago, there was a Goddess which created a universe. One verse, one thought, one emotion. And from this verse, from this thought, from this emotion; creation expanded. But there were rules… An order within the chaos, and a chaos within the order…” his mother used to start.

“I’ll tell you a story,” Stiles says to Derek. He rubs the fingertips of his right hand, all six of them, against the wrinkles in his jeans. Derek blinks up at him, a tired pinched look around his eyes.

“Long, long ago… There was a thought, an emotion, an idea. From this thought, from this emotion, from this idea sprung out all of creation… The light, the spirit, the matter. Order within chaos and chaos within order. Tied together, like the serpent after its own tail.”

Stiles’ mother’s eyes were blue. Stiles used to think she was made out of the sky. He’d tried to think of a story for his mother, but he was too young, and too hectic in his mind. His thoughts would run around in spirals, circles, cycles, and so much of the world would catch his temporary attention. But she was made out of the sky. Regardless of the color of her eyes.

She used to tell him stories. It probably started when he was a baby. She turned everything into a story. A glimpse. An understanding. A puzzle. An explanation. An enigma. A conclusion. An eternity. Everything animate and inanimate had its beginning even if it started with an ending.

“And the princess’ heart was so lonely it reached out into the space and across time, until it touched another lonely heart. And that lonely heart, a heart of ice and fear and terror, came to her, mad and terrified. But the princess was happy; there was now a reflection of her heart, a companion, a deep green creature with eyes golden and fiery unlike its heart. And her acceptance of the loneliness conquered the dragon, and she hid him in her dungeon because nobody should ever see her heart.”

Stiles’ mother used to tell him stories until she couldn’t anymore.

“The dragon, a simple creature, was fed and nurtured by the princess. She sang to the dragon. She washed its scales in the pleasantly cold safety of the dungeon. She told the dragon all of her thoughts, all of her worries, and all of her fears. Who else could listen to the truth, but her own heart? And the dragon grumbled, and sighed, and rumbled with her joys and with her sadness, turning its giant head to the left when in agreement, and to the right when confused, scratching the cement floor with his powerful claws. ”

Stiles’ mother used to tell him stories, long and short ones. Deep and shallow ones. Sad and happy ones, joyfully morose ones and sadly happy ones. She’d weave the words out of seemingly nowhere, always a new one unless Stiles wanted an old one retold. Threads of possibilities, threads of probabilities, threads of real and imagined merging until the real and the fantasy seemed as one. And if one looked closely enough, listened carefully, felt the story, they’d find a part of themselves within it, around it, reaching out of it.

“One day, when the princess was sleeping in her chambers, a servant came across the dungeon and ran away when a golden eye blinked open through the darkness of the cell. The servant ran until a prince from a distant land visiting the kingdom in search for adventure, for achievement, for conquering and glory stopped the frightened man. And the prince’s eyes widened at the news of a monster in the dungeons. There is his chance, there is his adventure, and there is his prestige to be acknowledged. A fight against a monster! He’s never seen a monster up close, the prince thought.”

Stiles' mother got sicker and sicker over months. Sometimes she’d start a story only to forget she even started it. She’d stare off into the distance, as if the threads of the stories were pulling away from her as the sickness pushed inside her mind. She’d smile after a while, the nothingness in her eyes overcome with a quick resolution. “Let’s go visit your father, Stiles,” she would wave at the neighbors even though they we’re not outside as they walked to the station.

“And the dragon thought the princess knew… And it scratched and scratched the dungeon’s cement floors until the last of the gold in the dragon’s eyes dimmed as the prince took his sword out of the emerald flesh. Now he has glory, it’s in the crimson blood on his royal sword, the prince thought. Now he’s someone. Now he’s worthy. Now he’s not just a title. Now he’s more than the slay flesh beneath his boots. Because princes were made to save kingdoms… The princes were made to rule. So it was that the elders always taught him. But the princess didn’t know. The story about the monster, dead in the dungeons, and the foreign brave prince who fought and rescued the land reaches her soon enough.”

Stiles’ mother ended up in the hospital after several months of unsuccessful medication. She was tired more often than not, and her eyes rarely recognized anything or anyone in her surroundings. Stiles was terrified. But he stayed with her as much as it’s allowed. Sometimes, most of the time, he avoided looking at her eyes.

“The prince is awarded a piece of land. He smiles as he greets the highest of the advisers to the king. He smiles as he greets the princess. Surely, they would be a perfect match now. He has saved her kingdom. He has saved her. He saved the land from the hideous monster, an abomination hidden in the dungeons. And princess smiles too. She smiles as she stands and watches the feast in the prince’s honor. She smiles as her father arranges the marriage between the valiant prince and herself. She smiles and means it. She smiles as the prince dances with her. She smiles and thinks, “You killed my heart, and I’ll kill yours.” And the prince smiles; well he has the most beautiful princess in the world by his side, and many monsters outside in the world to conquer. But the poor, thoughtless prince never was taught that while princes might have been made to save kingdoms, they were not made to save queendoms. So they dance, the princess who hid her heart from herself and paid for it, and the prince who no matter how many times slays a monster will never see the monster within until it’s too late.”

Once upon a time, there was a frightened little boy called Stiles. Loss used to scare him like it scares a lot of little boys and little girls, like it scares many grown little men and grown little women. But then Stiles remembered stories, and he remembered the skies, and he remembered the silent dragons in people’s unconscious dungeons, and the threads between us all, so he looked at his mother’s lost gaze in a hospital bed, took her hand into his and said, “Let me tell you a story.”

And now, Stiles counts his fingers and brushes the sweat drops on Derek’s forehead, and says, “Aeons ago, there was a Goddess from which all of life came forth. And from her spirit, the threads of one universe, one thought, and one emotion entwined into different worlds. And some, in some of those worlds, forgot her. They forgot the source, and they forgot who and what they were, and for many ages their memory became filled with nothing but pain. And the pain was born into the one verse, one thought, one emotion, one light. And with creation suffering, she who became the world suffered as well. But such is the price for free choice, and one day the worlds will remember what they were and are and forever will be. All they had to do was choose to remember.”

Derek’s eyes are closed, and his breathing is getting shallower as the dream flow starts to dissipate. “What was it?” Derek asks. “The verse, the thought, the emotion…”

Stiles feels the pull, knows he’s about to awaken, so he squeezes Derek’s shoulder, leans closer and whispers, “Love was.” Love was always first.


	3. Chapter 3

Derek is 12 when he first Dances with his wolf. The moon watches over them.  
I  
It's calm and quiet in the Woods as Thalia watches from afar. Derek is 12. Young and old as his wolf heart is. And he feels. Feels everything. The last rain drop beneath his feet, in the ground and under the roots.

The last time a fox passed by the oak tree. An old one, tired and looking for a final rest. The smell of fresh rain kisses his naked skin as he dances with his wolf. 

It is the first time he knows he isn't alone. He'll never be alone. At least he thought so not knowing about the wisdom in the golden blue red eyes of his wolf. Gain and loss create each other after all.

Stiles is 8 when he hears the moon howl. He is scared and concerned so he shuffles out of bed and snuggles between his parents. The next week they tell him that he has a disorder. That makes him sad because his parents seem concerned. 

He doesn't go to their bedroom anymore and listens to the howls of the moon over the years in the night. Once he howls back. The next day his mother was buried.


	4. Chapter 4

Contrary to the average person’s belief, most people dislike thinking. Thought itself can be the sharpest weapon, used against others or oneself. And Lydia does enjoy thinking. At some point or another, thought became a refuge and the pain turned into a controversial pleasure. Thought implies complicity. Complicity implies responsibility. Responsibility implies the thing most people are terrified of; freedom.

Most people, Lydia knows, enjoy illusions. High school is one of the most epic illusions, a drama of infinite proportions, since the beginning of humanity’s departure from the trees, from the caves. But nothing much has changed since the trees, since the caves. Toilet paper, proms, nuclear weapons are not exactly an evolution of the species; it’s more of an expansion of human fears.

So Lydia doesn’t particularly enjoy illusions, but they too are reality. Each and every illusion, personal or collective, shapes personal or collective reality. And so it’s up to Lydia to participate in the drama of high school, in the illusions around her… How else do you survive?

People enjoy illusions thinking reality would prove to be too much of a burden. So the high school jock, hides his father’s alcoholism with lacrosse bruises until the two aches merge and he doesn’t have to focus on which one is real or which one is chosen. And the crowd is always there, cheering and clapping, and for a while, a few moments the jock can feel powerful even in the oceans of his powerlessness. In the crowd, surrounded by it, he can forget, for a bit longer that there is no such thing as absolute control. Not when you’re a teenager and not when you’re an adult. It’s an illusion, one of countless, people including his father, buy into and are sold on even when they drown daily.

“That’s a great shade of lipstick, Lydia,” a freshman blurts out awkwardly as she hurries past Lydia.  
It’s not the lipstick, though, is it? Things are much like thoughts only coarser and far more visible. Things, even a lipstick, can be a simple and effective weapon, a wall, a statement. And Lydia has no issues with people being terrified by her. She marks her territory well, and it’s not only werewolves that can piss on a location. Lydia owns most of the high school. And it’s not the lipsticks, and it’s not the shoes, and it’s not clothes, and it’s not the hair, and it’s not the money, and it’s not the jock. Those are secondary. Those are accessories. Those are props for the drama, for the play. Shiny keeps the illusion from being too bleak.

“Detach yourself from my locker, Stilinski,” she waits for the flail, hiding a smirk, and puts her books back into the locker.

Some are curious little actors in the grand drama. Some people, rare but few, seem to think they can be… Just be, without an act. Perhaps it’s possible, but for how long?

It’s not even the illusion that is all that important. It’s what’s behind it. After all, each play has very willing actors. Lydia should know, after all, she plays her role to perfection.

And it’s not as if the role is mandatory, and it’s not as if everyone hates the games. Perhaps out of boredom, and not only fear, the drama is the only way to exist while not living. It’s the drama of shallow suffering that is alluring, instead of the possibilities of transformation and transcending.  
What would the unpopular kids have to tell to their future kids about their lives if not the drama of their own choice, and what would the popular kids have to lean onto once the glamour faded with age and exposure to the plays outside the high school one? Everyone needs their victimhood, wants it fleshed out and boned in.

Everyone craves the pain in order to find pleasure just before and after self-inflicting it.

And Lydia likes to think beyond the pain and the pleasure, beyond the illusion, beyond the walls, and courts, and games, and divisions, and the glamour. There’s a bigger game around the little ones. Something deeper, and something eternal. Something beyond humanity. It’s subtle and it’s crude. It’s in the air, but not of it. Perhaps it’s the one game nobody wants to be a part of. Perhaps it’s a bigger illusion than any human created one. It’s in the tiny prints, the quiet storms, and the silence above the fury of an idiot.

When Lydia was a child, her father took her to church. She wore her best white dress, and her best white shoes, and it was important to be on her best behavior. Strangely enough, the church didn’t leave the best impression on her. There was a half-naked man with effeminate looks crucified onto a piece of wood, looking down on the people with their best clothes, best shoes, and best behaviors for the next hour or two, and all Lydia could think; maybe it’s not the best behavior to enjoy such a guilt and suffering infused symbol. It’s only later that she learns about the resurrection, the one part nobody is as enamored as they are with their supposed savior dangling in the air. Perhaps it’s a message; look, nobody was worth saving in the first place. Nobody wants to be saved. That would be boring.

So Lydia knows. She puts on her best dress, she puts on her best shoes, and she puts on her best mask, and rules the pious high school herd in their mass offerings of their envy, jealousy, worship, confusion, fear, illusions. Every sheep has to be sheared. Otherwise they’d just get tangled in their own curls and swirls and panicky running into fences and tearing the wool along with their skin. Because at the end of the day, every jock needs his dose of temporary power before going back to the reality, and every nerd needs his dose of temporary powerlessness to keep him motivated to ensure getting out of his reality. Every ugliness needs its beauty, and every beauty needs its ugliness. How else do you know which is which? How else can you appreciate them both?

“Stilinski, I’ll shove the lacrosse stick up your ass if you don’t move out of my way,” Jackson yells out.  
“Swerve, lizard turd, swerve!” Stiles cackles, “Leave my ass alone, go play with yours. Ow! Why you piece of aborted crocodile fetus…”

It’s interesting how sooner or later; no matter how well you’ve created your illusion, your world; the scales underneath have to surface. And the screams must be let loose unless they get swallowed back into the matrix. There are no lizards and no wailing women crucified in churches. No mass, no prayer, no guilt.

“Who did it?” Derek rolls his eyes at Stiles’ proud grin over the blooming bruise on his face.

It’s not that Lydia is religious, but she does have a herd. She does have her pond with a school of fish willing to be baited and caught. She does have a mass. She does have a scream of a prayer for life in spite of the death. It’s a game within a game. These days, she seems to have gotten a pack of sorts…  
Stiles wiggles in his plaid amused by god only knows what, touching the bruise with light brushes of his buzzed fingertips as Derek goes for an antiseptic and some gauze. The loft is not as warm as the outside, so Lydia moves to sit on the couch next to Jackson and his semi-guilty vibes.

“How long does it take McCall to get his ass up here and dislocate his freaky jaw from his girlfriend’s freaky jaw? Some of us have a life.”

Roles are useful to a point. Each part is but a part of an ever changing whole, and the wholeness is the one directing the show no matter how many parts an individual takes and changes into. One spirals, twirls, dances in their role until it unrolls from the use or disuse. It unrolls unto another role, whether temporary or permanent, until the wholeness is experienced or rejected. And if rejected, there’s a void behind all those roles; a nothingness, an emptiness. But it’s not the hole which is empty, it’s the individual unwrapped which was always and forever a vast eternity. And if the vast eternity is the sole creator from which everything comes, then it’s the individual which creates and always had his or hers illusion.

“Calm your schnitzel, Jackson.” Peter smirks, “I didn’t bite McCall for his punctuality.”

“Would you stop touching your bruise?” Stiles snorts as if Derek’s annoyance is encouragement to irritate him some more.

“I am not dying. Lydia would have screamed in warning by now.”

“Would not.”

“You love me.”

And Lydia thinks, maybe she does.


	5. Chapter 5

Boyd has never seen the ocean. His father never took them , buried in work and trying to make it big in the white man's world.

Boyd has never seen the ocean, and it makes him grin ironically at the skies. He likes the blue and dark indigo of the night skies. It looks like another ocean, a mirror of possibilities shining in the heavens above the town.

His sister never saw the ocean either. Boyd would make her a bath with starfish toys and little paper boats that would eventually sink. Sometimes she'd laugh and say that the bath was dangerous for hats floating by.

His shoulder hurts from the last alpha attack and all he thinks about these days is how his sister never knew the sea so he takes Erica's offer to run away.

Just run, somewhere, anywhere and maybe his father would notice. Maybe Derek would flip out. But for a split second he sees the ocean of waves in Erica 's hair. The stars as yellow as the paper boats his dead sister confused for hats, and Boyd doesn't care much about the white man world or alphas or the ocean.

He takes Erica's trembling fear and smiles into the darkness of the Woods as they take of and run under the ocean skies above. Maybe its true and they'll always keep running, maybe they ll stop, maybe they'll come running back but... But at least they can make their own Bath and their own ocean of choices where it is their own world even if they sink. At least they tried.

That's the first time Boyd sees the ocean. The one in his sister s eyes, the one in Erica's curls and the actual one. And its his world and theirs. Nobody else's.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is thundereign


End file.
